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SHIPS  AND   HAVENS 


BOOK  LETS    BY 

Han  Sjjk? 


COUNSELS    BY    THE    WAY 

SHIPS    AND    HAVENS 

POETRY    OF   THE    PSALMS 

BATTLE    OF    LIFE 

GOOD    OLD    WAY 

ORDER   FROM    YOUR    BOOKSELLER 

THOMAS   Y.   CROWELL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS  NEW   YORK 


SHIPS  AND   HAVENS 


BY 

HENRY  VAN  DYKE 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  POETRY  OF  THE  PSALMS,"  "  JOY  AND  POWER. 
"THE  BEAUTY  OF  LIFE,"  "THE  GOOD  OLD  WAY,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1897, 
BY  THOMAS  Y.  GROWBLL  &  Go. 


FIFTY-FIRST  THOUSAND 


PS 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I.    PILGRIMS  OF  THE  SEA    .....  7 

II.    WHITHER  BOUND  ?  ......  i3 

III.  THE  HAVEN  OF  WORK    ......  18 

PLEASURE       .......  21 

WEALTH    ........  24 

FAME  .........  3o 

USEFULNESS    .......  33 

IV.  THE  HAVEN  OF  CHARACTER       .      .      .36 

THE  FORCE  OF  THE  IDEAL     ...  36 

POWERFUL  DAY-DREAMS       .      .      .  3  7 

THE  Two  PATHS  ......  4  1 

CHRISTIAN  CONSUMMATION    .      .  42 

V.    THE  LAST  PORT       ......  43 

THE  STRENGTH  OF  WISHES  ...  45 

THE  PASSION  OF  IMMORTALITY  .      .  47 


SHIPS   AND   HAVENS 

I.     PILGRIMS  OF  THE   SEA 

\J¥  all  the  things  that  man  has  made,  none  is 
so  full  of  interest  and  charm,  none  possesses  so 
distinct  a  life  and  character  of  its  own,  as  a 
ship. 

"  Ships  are  but  boards,"  says  Shylock  in 
The  Merchant  of  Venice.  But  we  feel  that 
this  is  a  thoroughly  wooden  opinion,  one  of 
those  literal  judgments  which  stick  to  the 
facts  and  miss  the  truth.  Ships  have  some- 
thing more  in  them  than  the  timbers  of  which 
they  are  made.  Human  thought  and  human 
labor  and  human  love,  —  the  designer's  clever 
conception,  the  builder's  patient  toil,  the  ex- 
plorer's daring  venture,  the  merchant's  costly 
enterprise,  the  sailor's  loyal  affection,  the  trav- 
eller's hopes  and  fears, — all  the  manifold 
sympathies  of  humanity,  inform  the  dumb 
pilgrims  of  the  sea  with  a  human  quality. 
There  is  a  spirit  within  their  oaken  ribs,  a 
significance  in  their  strange  histories. 

The  common  language  in  which  we  speak 
of  them  is  an  unconscious  confession  of  this 
feeling.  We  say  of  a  ship,  "  She  sails  well. 
She  minds  her  helm  quickly.  The  wind  is 
against  her,  but  she  makes  good  headway. 
[7] 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

We  wish  her  a  prosperous  voyage,"  We 
endow  her  with  personality  ;  and,  as  if  to 
acknowledge  the  full  measure  of  our  interest, 
we  express  it  in  terms  which  helong  to  the 
more  interesting  sex. 

One  reason  for  this  is  undoubtedly  the  fact 
that  the  ship  appears  to  us  as  a  traveller  to 
an  unseen,  and  often  an  unknown,  haven. 
It  is  the  element  of  mystery,  of  adventure,  of 
movement  towards  a  secret  goal,  that  fas- 
cinates our  imagination,  and  draws  our  sym- 
pathy after  it.  When  this  is  wanting,  the 
ship  loses  something  of  her  enchantment. 

There  is  a  little  cottage  where  I  have  spent 
many  summers  on  the  sleepy  southern  shore 
of  Long  Island.  From  the  white  porch  we 
could  look  out  upon  a  shallow,  land-locked 
bay.  There  we  saw,  on  every  sunny  day,  a 
score  of  sailboats,  flickering  to  and  fro  on  the 
bright  circle  of  water  in  swallow-flights,  with 
no  aim  but  their  own  motion  in  the  pleasant 
breeze.  It  was  a  flock  of  little  play-ships,  - 
a  pretty  sight,  but  it  brought  no  stir  to  the 
thought,  no  thrill  to  the  emotions. 

From  the  upper  windows  of  the  house  the 
outlook  surpassed  a  long  line  of  ragged  sand- 
dunes,  and  ranged  across 

"The  unplumbed,  salt,  estranging  sea." 

There  went  the  real  ships,  of  all  shapes  and 

sizes,   of   all    rigs  and   models  ;    the   great 

[8] 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

steamers,  building  an  airy  pillar  of  cloud  by 
day,  a  flashing  pillar  of  fire  by  night ;  the 
ragged  coasters,  with  their  patched  and  dingy 
sails;  the  slim,  swift  yachts,  hurrying  by  in 
gala-dress,  as  if  in  haste  to  arrive  at  some 
distant,  merry  festival  of  Neptune's  court. 
Sometimes  they  pass  in  groups,  like  flights 
of  plover  ;  sometimes  in  single  file,  like  a 
flock  of  wild  swans  ;  sometimes  separate  and 
lonely,  one  appearing  and  vanishing  before 
the  next  hove  in  sight. 

When  the  wind  was  from  the  north  they 
hugged  the  shore.  With  a  glass  one  could 
see  the  wrinkled,  weather-beaten  face  of  the 
man  at  the  wheel,  and  the  short  pipe  smoking 
between  his  lips.  When  the  wind  was  south- 
erly and  strong  they  kept  far  away,  creeping 
slowly  along  the  rim  of  the  horizon.  On  a 
fair  breeze  they  dashed  along,  wing  and  wing, 
with  easy,  level  motion.  When  the  wind 
was  contrary  they  came  beating  in  and  out, 
close-hauled,  tossing  and  laboring  over  the 
waves.  It  was  a  vision  of  endless  variety  and 
delight.  But  behind  it  all,  giving  life  and 
interest  to  the  scene,  was  the  invisible  thought 
of  the  desired  haven. 

Whither  is  she  travelling,  that  long,  four- 
masted  schooner,  with  all  her  sails  set  to 
catch  the  fickle  northwest  breeze  ?  Is  it  in 
some  languid  bay  of  the  West  Indies,  or 
in  some  rocky  harbor  of  Patagonia,  amid  the 
[9] 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

rigors  of  the  far  southern  winter,  that  she 
will  cast  anchor  ?  Where  is  she  hound,  that 
dark  little  tramp-steamer,  trailing  voluminous 
black  smoke  behind  her,  and  buffeting  her 
way  to  the  eastward  in  the  teeth  of  the  rising 
gale?  Is  it  in  some  sunlit  port  among  the 
bare,  purple  hills  of  Spain,  or  in  the  cool 
shadows  of  some  forest-clad  Norwegian  fiord, 
that  she  will  find  her  moorings?  Whither 
away,  ye  ships?  What  haven? 

How  often,  and  how  exquisitely,  this  ques- 
tion of  ships  and  havens  has  been  expressed 
by  the  poets  (in  prose  and  verse),  who  trans- 
late our  thoughts  for  us.  LongfelloAv  recalls 
a  dream  of  his  childhood  in  the  seaport  town 
of  Portland  :  — 

"I  remember  the  black  wharves  and  the  slips, 

And  the  sea-tides  tossing  free ; 
And  Spanish  sailors  with  bearded  lips, 
And  the  beauty  and  mystery  of  the  ships, 
And  the  magic  of  the  sea. 

And  the  voice  of  that  wayward  song 
Is  singing  and  saying  still : 
'  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts.'  " 

George  William  Curtis  wanders  down  to  the 
Battery  and  meditates  on  Sea  from  Shore  : 

"The  sails  were  shaken  out,  and  the  ship  began  to  move. 
It  was  a  fair  breeze  perhaps,  and  no  steamer  was  needed  to 
tow  her  away.  She  receded  down  the  bay.  Friends  turned 
back,  — I  could  not  see  them,  — and  waved  their  hands,  and 
wiped  their  eyes,  and  went  home  to  dinner.  Farther  and 
farther  from  the  ships  at  anchor,  the  lessening  vessel  became 
single  and  solitary  upon  the  water.  The  sun  sank  in  the 
[10] 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

west ;  but  I  watched  her  still.  Every  flash  of  her  sails,  as 
she  tacked  and  turned,  thrilled  my  heart.  ...  I  did  not 
know  the  consignees  nor  the  name  of  the  vessel.  I  had 
shipped  no  adventure,  nor  risked  any  insurance,  nor  made 
any  bet,  but  my  eyes  clung  to  her  as  Ariadne's  to  the  fading 
sail  of  Theseus." 

And  here  is  a  bit  of  Rudyard  Kipling's 
gusty  music  from  The  Seven  Seas  : 

'  'The  Liner  she's  a  lady,  an'  she  never  looks  nor  'eeds  — 
The  Man-o '-War's  'er  'usband,  an'  'e  gives  'er  all  she  needs; 
But,  oh,  the  little  cargo-boats,  that  sail  the  wet  seas  roun', 
They  're  just  the  same  as  you  and  me,  a-plyin'  up  an'  down !  " 

But  it  is  Wordsworth,  the  most  intimate 
and  searching  interpreter  of  delicate,  half- 
formed  emotions,  who  has  given  the  best  ex- 
pression to  the  feeling  that  arises  within  us 
at  sight  of  a  journeying  ship  :  - 

"With  ships  the  sea  was  sprinkled  far  and  nigh 
Like  stars  in  heaven,  and  joyously  it  showed ; 
Some  lying  fast  at  anchor  in  the  road, 
Some  veering  up  and  down,  one  knew  not  why. 
A  goodly  Vessel  did  I  then  espy 
Come  like  a  giant  from  a  haven  broad; 
And  lustily  along  the  bay  she  strode, 
Her  tackling  rich,  and  of  apparel  high, 
This  Ship  was  naught  to  me,  nor  I  to  her, 
Yet  I  pursued  her  with  a  Lover's  look ; 
This  Ship  to  all  the  rest  I  did  prefer: 
When  will  she  turn,  and  whither?     She  will  brook 
No  tarrying:   where  she  comes  the  winds  must  stir; 
On  went  she,  and  due  north  her  journey  took. 

"Where  lies  the  Land  to  which  yon  Ship  must  go? 
Fresh  as  a  lark  mounting  at  break  of  day 
Festively  she  puts  forth  in  trim  array; 
Is  she  for  tropic  suns,  or  polar  snow? 
What  boots  the  inquiry? — Neither  friend  nor  foe 
She  cares  for ;  let  her  travel  where  she  may 
She  finds  familiar  friends,  a  beaten  way 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

Ever  before  her,  and  a  wind  to  blow. 

Yet  still  I  ask,  what  haven  is  her  mark? 

And,  almost  as  it  was  when  ships  were  rare, 

(From  time  to  time,  like  Pilgrims,  here  and  there 

Grossing  the  waters),  doubt,  and  something  dark, 

Of  the  old  Sea  some  reverential  fear 

Is  with  me  at  thy  farewell,  joyous  Bark  I " 

And  is  not  this  a  parable,  beautiful  and  sug- 
gestive, of  the  way  in  which  we  look  out,  in 
our  thoughtful  moods,  upon  the  ocean  of 
human  life,  and  the  men  and  women  who 
are  voyaging  upon  it?  In  them  also  the 
deepest  element  of  interest  is  that  they  are 
in  motion.  They  are  all  going  somewhither. 
They  are  not  stationary  objects  in  our  view. 
They  are  not  even,  in  this  aspect,  parts  of  the 
great  tide  of  being  in  which  they  float.  They 
are  distinct,  individual,  separate.  We  single 
them  out  one  by  one.  Each  one  is  a  voy- 
ager, with  a  port  to  seek,  a  course  to  run,  a 
fortune  to  experience.  The  most  interesting 
question  that  we  can  ask  in  regard  to  them 
is  :  Whither  bound  ?  What  haven  ? 

But  this  inquiry  comes  to  us  now  not  as 
an  idle  or  a  curious  question.  For,  first  of 
all,  we  feel  that  these  men  and  women  are 
not  strangers  to  us.  We  know  why  we  take 
a  personal  interest  in  one  more  than  in 
another.  We  know  why  we  "pursue  them 
with  a  lover's  look."  It  is  as  if  the  "joyous 
Bark"  carried  some  one  that  we  knew,  as  if 
we  could  see  a  familiar  face  above  the  bul- 
[irj 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

warks,  and  hear  a  well-beloved  voice  hailing 
us  across  the  waves.  And  then  we  realize 
that  we  also  are  en  voyage.  We  do  not 
stand  on  the  shore  as  spectators;  we,  too, 
are  out  on  the  ocean,  sailing.  All  the  '*  reve- 
rential fear  of  the  old  Sea,"  the  peril,  the 
mystery,  the  charm,  of  the  voyage,  come 
home  to  our  own  experience.  The  question 
becomes  pressing,  urgent,  importunate,  as 
we  enter  into  the  depth  of  its  meaning. 
Surely  there  is  nothing  that  we  can  ever  ask 
ourselves  in  which  we  have  a  closer,  deeper 
interest,  or  to  which  we  need  to  find  a  clearer, 
truer  answer,  than  this  simple,  direct  ques- 
tion :  What  is  oar  desired  haven  in  the  ven- 
turesome voyage  of  life? 

II.        WHITHER    BOUND? 

I  want  to  talk  with  you  about  this  question 
in  this  little  book,  as  a  writer  may  talk  with 
a  reader  across  the  unknown  intervals  of 
time  and  space.  The  book  that  does  not 
really  speak  to  you  is  not  worth  much.  And 
unless  you  really  hear  something,  and  make 
some  kind  of  an  answer  to  it,  you  do  not 
truly  read. 

There  is  a  disadvantage,  of  course,  in  the 
fact  that  you  and  I  do  not  know  each  other 
and  speak  face  to  face.  Who  you  are,  into 
whose  hands  this  book  has  come,  I  cannot 
tell.  And  to  you,  I  am  nothing  but  a  name. 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

Where  you  may  be,  while  you  turn  these 
pages,  I  cannot  guess.  Perhaps  you  are  sit- 
ting in  your  own  quiet  room  after  a  hard 
day's  work  ;  perhaps  you  are  reading  aloud 
in  some  circle  of  friends  around  the  open 
fire;  perhaps  you  are  in  the  quiet  woods,  or 
out  in  the  pleasant  orchard  under  your  favor- 
ite tree ;  perhaps  you  are  actually  on  the  deck 
of  a  ship  travelling  across  the  waters.  It  is 
strange  and  wonderful  to  think  of  the  many 
different  places  into  which  the  words  that  I 
am  now  writing  in  this  lonely,  book-lined 
study  may  come,  and  of  the  many  different 
eyes  that  may  read  them. 

But  wherever  you  are,  and  whoever  you 
may  be,  there  is  one  thing  in  which  you  and 
I  are  just  alike,  at  this  moment,  and  in  all 
the  moments  of  our  existence.  We  are  not 
at  rest;  we  are  on  a  journey.  Our  life  is 
not  a  mere  fact;  it  is  a  movement,  a  tendency, 
a  steady,  ceaseless  progress  towards  an  unseen 
goal.  We  are  gaining  something,  or  losing 
something,  every  day.  Even  when  our  posi- 
tion and  our  character  seem  to  remain  pre- 
cisely the  same,  they  are  changing.  For  the 
mere  advance  of  time  is  a  change.  It  is  not 
the  same  thing  to  have  a  bare  field  in  January 
and  in  July.  The  season  makes  the  differ- 
ence. The  limitations  that  are  childlike  in 
the  child  are  childish  in  the  man. 

Everything  that  we  do  is  a    step   in  one 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

direction  or  another.  Even  the  failure  to  do 
something  is  in  itself  a  deed.  It  sets  us 
forward  or  backward.  The  action  of  the 
negative  pole  of  a  magnetic  needle  is  just  as 
real  as  the  action  of  the  positive  pole.  To 
decline  is  to  accept — the  other  alternative. 

Are  you  richer  to-day  than  you  were  yester- 
day? No?  Then  you  are  a  little  poorer.  Are 
you  better  to-day  than  you  were  yesterday  ? 
No?  Then  you  are  a  little  worse.  Are  you 
nearer  to  your  port  to-day  than  you  were 
yesterday?  Yes,  — you  must  be  a  little  nearer 
to  some  port  or  other ;  for  since  your  ship 
was  first  launched  upon  the  sea  of  life,  you 
have  never  been  still  for  a  single  moment ;  the 
sea  is  too  deep,  you  could  not  find  an  anchor- 
age if  you  would ;  there  can  be  no  pause  until 
you  come  into  port. 

But  what  is  it,  then,  the  haven  towards 
which  you  are  making  ?  What  is  the  goal 
that  you  desire  and  hope  to  reach  ?  What  is 
the  end  of  life  towards  which  you  are  drifting 
or  steering  ? 

There  are  three  ways  in  which  we  may  look 
at  this  question,  depending  upon  the  point  of 
view  from  which  we  regard  human  existence. 

When  we  think  of  it  as  a  work,  the  question 
is,  "  What  do  we  desire  to  accomplish  ?  " 

When  we  think  of  it  as  a  growth,  a  develop- 
ment, a  personal  unfolding,  the  question  is, 
"  What  do  we  desire  to  become  ?  " 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

When  we  think  of  it  as  an  experience,  a 
destiny,  the  question  is,  "  What  do  we  desire 
to  become  of  us  ?  " 

Do  not  imagine  for  an  instant  that  these 
questions  can  be  really  separated.  They  are 
interwoven.  They  cross  each  other  from  end 
to  end  of  the  web  of  life.  The  answer  to 
one  question  determines  the  ansAver  to  the 
others.  We  cannot  divide  our  work  from  our- 
selves, nor  isolate  our  future  from  our  qual- 
ities. A  ship  might  as  well  try  to  sail  north 
with  her  jib,  and  east  with  her  foresail,  and 
south  with  her  mainsail,  as  a  man  to  go  one 
way  in  conduct,  and  another  way  in  character, 
and  another  way  in  destiny. 

What  we  do  belongs  to  what  we  are ;  and 
what  we  are  is  what  becomes  of  us. 

And  yet,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  there  is  a 
difference  in  these  three  standpoints  from 
which  we  may  look  at  our  life  ;  and  this 
difference  not  only  makes  a  little  variation 
in  the  view  that  we  take  of  our  existence,  but 
also  influences  unconsciously  our  manner  of 
thinking  and  speaking  about  it.  Most  of  the 
misunderstandings  that  arise  when  we  are 
talking  about  life  come  from  a  failure  to 
remember  this.  We  are  looking  at  the  same 
thing,  but  we  are  looking  from  opposite 
corners  of  the  room.  We  are  discussing  the 
same  subject,  but  in  different  dialects. 

Some  people  —  perhaps  the  majority  —  are 

[16.1 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

of  a  practical  turn  of  mind.  Life  seems  to 
them  principally  an  affair  of  definite  labor 
directed  to  certain  positive  results.  They  are 
usually  thinking  about  what  they  are  to  do  in 
the  world,  and  what  they  are  to  get  for  it. 
It  is  a  question  of  occupation,  of  accomplish- 
ment, of. work  and  wages. 

Other  people  —  and  I  think  almost  all 
serious-minded  people  when  they  are  young, 
and  life  still  appears  fresh  and  wonderful  to 
them  —  regard  their  existence  from  the  stand- 
point of  sentiment,  of  feeling,  of  personality. 
They  have  their  favorite  characters  in  history 
or  fiction,  whom  they  admire  and  try  to 
imitate.  They  have  their  ideals,  which  they 
seek  and  hope  to  realize.  Some  vision  of 
triumph  over  obstacles,  and  victory  over 
enemies,  some  model  of  manhood  or  woman- 
hood, shines  before  them.  By  that  standard 
they  test  and  measure  themselves.  Towards 
that  end  they 'direct  their  efforts.  The  ques- 
tion of  life,  for  them,  is  a  question  of  attain- 
ment, of  self-discipline,  of  self-development. 

Other  people  —  and  I  suppose  we  may  say 
all  people  at  some  time  or  other  in  their 
experience  —  catch  a  glimpse  of  life  in  still 
wider  and  more  mysterious  relations.  They 
see  that  it  is  not  really,  for  any  one  of  us,  an 
independent  and  self-centred  and  self-con- 
trolled affair.  They  feel  that  its  issues  run 
out  far  beyond  what  we  can  see  in  this  world. 


SHIPS  AND  HAVENS 

They  have  a  deep  sense  of  a  future  state  of 
being  towards  which  we  are  all  inevitably 
moving.  This  movement  cannot  be  a  matter 
of  chance.  It  must  be  under  law,  under 
responsibility,  under  guidance.  It  cannot 
be  a  matter  of  indifference  to  us.  It  ought 
to  be  the  object  of  our  most  earnest  concern, 
our  most  careful  choice,  our  most  determined 
endeavor.  If  there  is  a  port  beyond  the 
horizon  we  should  know  where  it  lies,  and 
how  to  win  it.  And  so  the  question  of  life, 
in  these  profound  moods  which  come  to  all 
of  us,  presents  itself  as  a  question  of  eternal 
destiny. 

Now,  if  we  are  to  understand  each  other, 
if  we  are  to  get  a  view  of  the  subject  which 
shall  be  anything  like  a  well-rounded  view, 
a  complete  view,  we  must  look  at  the  ques- 
tion from  all  three  sides.  .We  must  ask  our- 
selves :  What  is  our  desired  haven,  first,  in 
achievement ;  and  second,  in  character  ;  and 
last,  in  destiny? 

III.     THE  HAVEN  OF  WORK 

Surely  we  ought  to  know  what  it  is  that 
we  really  want  to  do  in  the  world,  what 
practical  result  we  desire  to  accomplish  with 
our  lives.  And  this  is  a  question  which  it 
will  be  very  wise  to  ask  and  answer  before 
we  determine  what  particular  means  we  shall 
use  in  order  to  perform  our  chosen  work  and 
[18] 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

to  secure  the  desired  result.  A  man  ought  to 
know  what  he  proposes  to  make  hefore  he 
selects  and  prepares  his  tools.  A  captain 
should  have  a  clear  idea  of  what  port  he  is  to 
reach  hefore  he  attempts  to  lay  his  course  and 
determine  his  manner  of  sailing. 

All  these  minor  questions  of  ways  and 
means  must  come  afterwards.  They  cannot 
be  settled  at  the  outset.  They  depend  on  cir- 
cumstances. They  change  with  the  seasons. 
There  are  many  paths  to  the  same  end.  One 
may  be  best  to-day.  Another  may  be  best 
to-morrow.  The  wind  and  the  tide  make  a 
difference.  One  way  may  be  best  for  you, 
another  way  for  me.  The  build  of  the  ship 
must  be  taken  into  consideration.  A  flat- 
bottomed  craft  does  best  in  the  shallow  water, 
along  shore.  A  deep  keel  is  for  the  open  sea. 

But  before  we  make  up  our  minds  how 
to  steer  from  day  to  day,  we  must  know 
where  we  are  going  in  the  long  run.  Then 
we  can  shape  our  course  to  fit  our  purpose. 
We  can  learn  how  to  meet  emergencies  as 
they  arise.  We  can  change  our  direction  to 
avoid  obstacles  and  dangers.  We  can  take 
a  roundabout  way  if  need  be.  If  we  keep 
the  thought  of  our  desired  haven  clearly 
before  us,  all  the  other  points  can  be  more 
easily  and  wisely  settled  ;  and  however  Devi- 
ous and  difficult  the  voyage  may  be,  it  will 
be  a  success  when  we  get  there. 
['9] 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

I  am  quite  sure  that  a  great  deal  of  the 
confusion  and  perplexity  of  youth,  and  a 
great  deal  of  the  restlessness  and  fickleness 
which  older  people  often  criticise  so  severely 
and  so  unjustly,  come  from  the  attempt  to 
choose  an  occupation  in  life  before  the 
greater  question  of  the  real  object  of  our 
life-work  has  been  fairly  faced  and  settled. 
'  *  What  are  you  going  to  do  when  you 
grow  up?"  This  is  the  favorite  conundrum 
which  the  kind  aunts  and  uncles  put  to  the 
boys  when  they  come  home  from  school ; 
and  of  late  they  are  beginning  to  put  it  to 
the  girls  also,  since  it  has  been  reluctantly 
admitted  that  a  girl  may  rightly  have  some- 
thing to  say  about  what  she  would  like  to 
do*  in  the  world.  But  how  is  it  possible 
to  make  anything  more  than  a  blind  guess 
at  the  answer,  unless  the  boy  or  the  girl 
has  some  idea  of  the  practical  end  which 
is  to  be  worked  for.  To  choose  a  trade, 
a  business,  a  profession,  without  knowing 
what  kind  of  a  result  you  want  to  get  out 
of  your  labor,  is  to  set  sail  in  the  dark. 
It  is  to  have  a  course,  but  no  haven  ;  an 
employment,  but  no  vocation. 

There  are  really  only  four  great  practical 
ends  for  which  men  and  women  can  work  in 
this  world, — Pleasure,  Wealth,  Fame,  and 
Usefulness.  We  owe  it  to  ourselves  to  con- 
sider them  carefully,  and  to  make  up  our 
[IP] 


SHIPS   AND   HAVENS 

minds  which  of  them  is  to  be  our  chief  object 
in  life. 

Pleasure  is  one  aim  in  life,  and  there  are 
a  great  many  people  who  are  following  it, 
consciously  or  unconsciously,  as  the  main 
end  of  all  their  efforts.  Now,  pleasure  is  a 
word  which  has  a  double  meaning.  It  may 
mean  the  satisfaction  of  all  the  normal  desires 
of  our  manhood  in  their  due  proportion,  and 
in  this  sense  it  is  a  high  and  noble  end. 
There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  intelligent  exercise 
of  all  our  faculties,  in  the  friendship  of  nature, 
in  the  perception  of  truth,  in  the  generosity  of 
love,  in  the  achievements  of  heroism,  in  the 
deeds  of  beneficence,  in  the  triumphs  of  self- 
sacrifice.  "It  is  not  to  taste  sweet  things," 
says  Carlyle,  ' '  but  to  do  true  and  noble 
things,  and  vindicate  himself  under  God's 
Heaven  as  a  God-made  man,  that  the  poorest 
son  of  Adam  dimly  longs.  Show  him  the 
way  of  doing  that,  the  dullest  day-drudge 
kindles  into  a  hero." 

But  pleasure  as  we  commonly  speak  of  it 
means  something  very  different  from  this. 
It  denotes  the  immediate  gratification  of  our 
physical  senses  and  appetites  and  inclinations. 
There  is  a  free  gift  of  pleasant  sensation 
attached  by  the  Creator  to  the  fulfilment  of 
our  natural  propensions.  The  taking  of  food, 
for  example,  not  only  nourishes  the  body, 
but  also  gratifies  the  palate;  the  quenching 

[21   ] 


SHIPS   AND   HAVENS 

of  thirst  is  agreeable  to  the  senses  as  well  as 
necessary  to  the  maintenance  of  life.  No 
sane  and  wholesome  thinker  has  ventured 
to  deny  that  it  is  lawful  and  wise  to  receive 
this  gratuitous  gift  of  pleasure,  and  rejoice  in 
it,  as  it  comes  to  us  in  this  world  wherein 
God  has  caused  to  grow  ' '  every  tree  that  is 
pleasant  to  the  sight  and  good  for  food." 
But  when  we  make  the  reception  of  the 
agreeable  sensation  the  chief  end  and  motive 
of  our  action,  when  we  direct  our  will  and 
our  effort  to  the  attainment  of  this  end,  then 
we  enter  upon  a  pleasure-seeking  life.  We 
make  that  which  should  be  our  servant  to 
refresh  and  cheer  us,  our  master  to  direct 
and  rule  and  drive  us. 

The  evil  nature  of  this  transformation  is 
suggested  in  the  very  names  which  we  give 
to  human  conduct  in  which  the  gratification  of 
the  senses  has  become  the  controlling  purpose. 
The  man  who  lives  for  the  sake  of  the  enjoy- 
ment that  he  gets  out  of  eating  and  drinking 
is  a  glutton  or  a  drunkard.  The  man  who 
measures  the  success  and  happiness  of  his 
life  by  its  physical  sensations,  whether  they 
be  coarse  and  brutal  or  delicate  and  refined, 
is  a  voluptuary. 

A  pleasure-seeking  life,  in  this  sense,  when 
we  think  of  it  clearly  and  carefully,  is  one 
which  has  no  real  end  or  goal  outside  of  itself. 
Its  aims  is  unreal  and  transitory,  a  passing 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

thrill  in  nerves  that  decay,  an  experience  that 
leads  noAvhere,  and  leaves  nothing  behind  it. 
Robert  Burns  knew  the  truth  of  what  he 
wrote  :  — 

"  But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 
You  seize  the  flower,  the  bloom  is  shed  I  " 

The  man  who  chooses  pleasure  as  the  object 
of  his  life  has  no  real  haven,  but  is  like  a  boat 
that  beats  up  and  down  and  drifts  to  and  fro, 
merely  to  feel  the  motion  of  the  waves  and 
the  impulse  of  the  wind.  When  the  voyage 
of  life  is  done  he  has  reached  no  port,  he  has 
accomplished  nothing. 

One  of  the  Avisest  of  the  ancients,  the  Stoic 
philosopher  Seneca,  wrote  a  letter  to  his 
brother  Gallio  (the  Roman  governor  before 
whom  St.  Paul  was  tried  in  Corinth),  in 
which  he  speaks  very  frankly  about  the  folly 
of  a  voluptuous  life. 

"  Those  who  have  permitted  pleasure  to  lead  the  van  .  .  . 
lose  virtue  altogether,  and  yet  they  do  not  possess  pleasure, 
but  are  possessed  by  it ;  and  are  either  tortured  by  its  absence, 
or  choked  by  its  excess,  being  wretched  if  deserted  by  it,  and 
yet  more  wretched  if  overwhelmed  by  it ;  like  those  who  are 
caught  in  the  shoals  of  the  Syrtes,  and  at  one  time  are  stranded 
on  dry  ground,  and  at  another  tossed  on  the  furious  billows. 
...  As  we  hunt  wild  beasts  with  toil  and  peril,  and  even 
when  they  are  caught  find  them  an  anxious  possession,  for 
they  often  tear  their  keepers  to  pieces,  even  so  are  great 
pleasures;  they  turn  out  to  be  great  evils,  and  take  their 
owners  prisoner." 

This  is  the  voice  of  human  prudence  and 
philosophy.  The  voice  of  religion  is  even 

[28] 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

more  clear  and  piercing.  St.  Paul  says  of 
the  pleasure-seekers :  * '  Whose  end  is  de- 
struction, whose  god  is  their  belly,  whose 
glory  is  their  shame,  who  mind  earthly 
things . ' '  And  in  another  place ,  lest  we  should 
forget  that  this  is  as  true  of  women  as  it  is 
of  men,  he  says  :  "  She  that  liveth  in  pleas- 
ure is  dead  while  she  liveth."  That  saying  is 
profoundly  true.  It  goes  to  the  bottom  of  the 
subject.  A  pleasure-seeking  life  is  a  living 
death,  because  its  object  perishes  even  while 
it  is  attained,  and  at  the  end  nothing  is  left 
of  it  but  dust  and  corruption. 

Think  of  the  result  of  existence  in  the 
man  or  woman  who  has  lived  chiefly  to 
gratify  the  physical  appetities  ;  think  of  its 
real  emptiness,  its  real  repulsiveness,  when 
old  age  comes,  and  the  senses  are  dulled,  and 
the  roses  have  faded,  and  the  lamps  at  the 
banquet  are  smoking  and  expiring,  and  desire 
fails,  and  all  that  remains  is  the  fierce,  insa- 
tiable, ugly  craving  for  delights  which  have 
fled  forevermore  ;  think  of  the  bitter,  burning 
vacancy  of  such  an  end,  —  and  you  must  see 
that  pleasure  is  not  a  good  haven  to  seek  in 
the  voyage  of  life. 

But  what  of  wealth  as  a  desired  haven  ? 
When  we  attempt  to  consider  this  subject 
we  have  especial  need  to  follow  Dr.  Samuel 
Johnson's  blunt  advice  and  "  clear  our  minds 
of  cant."  There  is  a  great  deal  of  foolish  rail- 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

ing  against  wealth,  which  takes  for  granted 
now  that  it  is  an  unsubstantial  and  illusory 
good,  and  now  that  it  is  not  a  good  at  all, 
hut  only  an  unmixed  evil,  and  the  root  of 
all  other  evils.  Many  preachers  and  moralists 
talk  about  wealth  in  this  way ;  but  they  do 
not  really  think  about  it  in  this  way.  They 
know  better.  And  when  young  people  dis- 
cover and  observe  the  curious  inconsistency 
between  the  teacher's  words  and  his  thoughts, 
as  illuminated  by  his  conduct,  they  are  likely 
to  experience  a  sense  of  disappointment,  and  a 
serious  revulsion  from  a  doctrine  which  does 
not  seem  to  be  sincere. 

Weath  is  simply  the  visible  result  of  human 
labor,  or  of  the  utilization  of  natural  forces 
and  products,  in  such  a  form  that  it  can  be 
exchanged.  A  gallon  of  water  in  a  mountain 
lake  is  not  wealth.  But  the  same  gallon  of 
water  conveyed  through  an  aqueduct  and 
delivered  in  the  heart  of  a  great  city  repre- 
sents a  certain  amount  of  wealth,  because  it 
has  a  value  in  relation  to  the  wants  of  men. 
A  tree  growing  in  an  inaccessible  forest  is 
not  wealth.  But  a  stick  of  timber  which 
can  be  delivered  in  a  place  where  men  are 
building  houses  is  a  bit  of  wealth. 

Now,  the  symbol  and  measure  of  wealth  is 
money.  It  is  the  common  standard  by  which 
the  value  of  different  commodities  is  estimated, 
and  the  means  by  which  they  are  exchanged. 

[25] 


SHIPS  AND  HAVENS 

It  is  not  a  dream  nor  a  delusion.  It  is  some- 
thing real  and  solid.  It  is  deserving  of  our 
respect  under  certain  conditions  and  within 
certain  limitations.  The  man  who  professes 
an  absolute  contempt  for  money  is  either  a 
little  of  a  fool  or  a  good  deal  of  a  fraud.  It 
represents  a  product  of  labor  and  a  form 
of  power.  It  is  worth  working  for.  When 
a  man  has  won  it,  there  it  is  —  a  fact  and  a 
force.  He  can  handle  it,  use  it,  dispose  of  it, 
as  he  chooses. 

But  stop  a  moment ;  let  us  think  !  Is  that 
altogether  true  ?  It  is  partly  true,  no  doubt ; 
for  every  particle  of  wealth,  or  of  its  symbol, 
money,  is  an  actual  possession  of  which  its 
owner  can  dispose.  But  it  is  not  the  whole 
truth  ;  for  the  fact  is  that  he  must  dispose 
of  it,  because  that  is  the  only  way  in  which 
it  becomes  available  as  wealth.  A  piece  of 
money  in  an  old  stocking  is  no  more  than 
a  leaf  upon  a  tree.  It  is  only  when  the  coin 
is  taken  out  and  used  that  it  becomes  of 
value.  And  the  nature  of  the  value  depends 
upon  the  quality  of  the  use. 

Moreover,  it  is  not  true  that  a  man  can 
dispose  of  his  money  as  he  chooses.  The 
purposes  for  which  it  can  be  used  are  strictly 
bounded.  There  are  many  things  that  he 
cannot  buy  with  it;  for  example,  health, 
long  life,  wisdom,  a  cheerful  spirit,  a  clear 
conscience,  peace  of  mind,  a  contented  heart. 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

You  never  see  the  stock  called  Happiness 
quoted  on  the  exchange.  How  high  would  it 
range,  think  you,  — a  hundred  shares  of  Hap- 
piness Preferred,  guaranteed  7%,  seller  3o  P 

And  there  are  some  things  that  a  man 
cannot  do  with  his  wealth.  For  instance, 
he  cannot  carry  it  with  him  when  he  dies. 
No  system  of  transfer  has  been  established 
between  the  two  worlds  ;  and  a  large  balance 
here  does  not  mean  a  balance  on  the  other 
side  of  the  grave.  The  property  of  Dives 
did  not  fall  in  value  when  he  died,  and  yet  he 
became  a  pauper  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

There  is  no  question  but  that  those  who 
live  to  win  wealth  in  this  world  have  a  more 
real  and  substantial  end  in  view  than  the  mere 
pleasure-seekers.  But  the  thing  that  we 
ought  to  understand  and  remember  is  pre- 
cisely what  that  end  is.  It  is  the  acquisition 
in  our  hands  of  a  certain  thing  whose  posses- 
sion is  very  brief,  and  whose  value  depends 
entirely  upon  the  use  to  which  it  is  put. 
Now,  if  we  make  the  mere  gaining  of  that 
thing  the  desired  haven  of  our  life,  we  cer- 
tainly spend  our  strength  for  naught,  and 
our  labor  for  that  which  satisfieth  not.  We 
narrow  and  contract  our  whole  existence. 
We  degrade  it  by  making  it  terminate  upon 
something  which  is  only  a  sign,  a  symbol, 
behind  which  we  see  no  worthy  and  enduring 
reality. 

O7] 


SHIPS   AND   HAVENS 

It  is  for  this  reason  that  the  "  blind  vice" 
of  avarice,  as  Juvenal  calls  it,  has  been  par- 
ticularly despised  by  the  wise  of  all  lands  and 
ages.  There  is  no  other  fault  that  so  quickly 
makes  the  heart  small  and  hard. 

"They  soon  grow  old  who  grope  for  gold 
In  marts  where  all  is  bought  and  sold  ; 
Who  live  for  self,  and  on  some  shelf 
In  darkened  vaults  hoard  up  their  pelf; 
Cankered  and  crusted  o'er  with  mold, 
For  them  their  youth  itself  is  old." 

Nor  is  there  any  other  service  that  appears 
more  unprofitable  and  ridiculous  in  the  end, 
when  the  reward  for  which  the  money-maker 
has  given  his  life  is  stripped  away  from  him 
with  a  single  touch,  and  he  is  left  with  his 
trouble  for  his  pains. 

"If  thou  art  rich,  thou'rt  poor; 
For  like  an  ass  whose  back  with  ingots  bows, 
Thou  bear'st  thy  heavy  burden  but  a  journey, 
And  death  unloads  thee." 

But  perhaps  you  imagine  that  no  one  is  in 
danger  of  making  that  mistake,  no  one  is 
so  foolish  as  to  seek  wealth  merely  for  its  own 
sake.  Do  you  think  so?  Then,  what  shall 
we  say  of  that  large  class  of  men,  so  promi- 
nent and  so  influential  in  modern  society, 
whose  energies  are  desperately  consecrated 
to  the  winning  of  great  fortunes  ? 

So  far  as  their  life  speaks  for  them,  they 
have  no  real  ambition  beyond  that.  They 
are  not  the  leaders  in  noble  causes,  the  sus- 
[28] 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

tainers  of  beneficent  enterprises.  They  have 
no  refined  and  elevated  tastes  to  gratify.  They 
are  not  the  promoters  of  art  or  science,  the 
adorners  of  their  city  with  splendid  buildings, 
the  supporters  of  humane  and  beautiful  char- 
ities. They  have  no  large  plans,  no  high  and 
generous  purposes.  They  have  no  public 
spirit,  only  an  intense  private  greed.  All 
that  we  can  say  of  them  is  that  they  are  rich 
and  that  they  evidently  want  to  be  richer. 

They  sit  like  gigantic  fowls  brooding  upon 
nests  of  golden  eggs,  which  never  hatch. 
Their  one  desire  is  not  to  bring  anything  out 
of  the  eggs,  but  to  get  more  eggs  into  their 
nest.  It  is  a  form  of  lunacy  —  auromania. 

But  let  us  not  suppose  that  these  notorious 
examples  are  the  only  ones  who  are  touched 
with  this  insanity.  It  is  just  the  same  in  the 
man  who  is  embittered  by  failure,  as  in  the  man 
who  is  elated  by  success ;  just  the  same  in 
those  who  make  it  the  chief  end  of  life  to 
raise  their  hundreds  of  dollars  to  thousands, 
as  in  those  who  express  their  ambition  in 
terms  of  seven  figures.  Govetousness  is  idol- 
atry of  wealth,  It  may  be  paid  to  a  little 
idol  as  well  as  to  a  big  one.  Avarice  may  be 
married  to  Poverty,  and  then  its  offspring  is 
named  Envy  ;  or  it  may  be  married  to  Riches, 
and  then  its  children  are  called  Purse-pride 
and  Meanness.  Some  people  sell  their  lives  for 
heaps  of  treasure,  and  some  for  a  scant  thirty 
[39] 


SHIPS   AND   HAVENS 

pieces  of  silver,  and  some  for  nothing  better 
than  a  promissory  note  of  fortune,  without 
endorsement. 

There  are  multitudes  of  people  in  the  world 
to-day  who  are  steering  and  sailing  for  Ophir, 
simply  because  it  is  the  land  of  gold.  What 
will  they  do  if  they  reach  their  desired  haven  ? 
They  do  not  know.  They  do  not  even  ask 
the  question.  They  will  be  rich.  They  will 
sit  down  on  their  gold. 

Let  us  look  our  desires  squarely  in  the 
face  !  To  win  riches,  to  have  a  certain  balance 
in  the  bank,  and  a  certain  rating  on  the  ex- 
change, is  a  real  object,  a  definite  object;  but 
it  is  a  frightfully  small  object  for  the  devotion 
of  a  human  life,  and  a  bitterly  disappointing 
reward  for  the  loss  of  an  immortal  soul.  If 
wealth  is  our  desired  haven,  we  may  be  sure 
that  it  will  not  satisfy  us  when  we  reach  it. 

Well,  then,  what  shall  we  say  of  fame  as 
the  chief  end  of  life  P  Here,  again,  we  must 
be  careful  to  discriminate  between  the  thing 
itself  and  other  things  which  are  often  con- 
fused with  it.  Fame  is  simply  what  our 
fellow-men  think  and  say  of  us.  It  may  be 
worldwide  ;  it  may  only  reach  to  a  single 
country  or  city  ;  it  may  be  confined  to  a 
narrow  circle  of  society.  Translated  in  one 
way,  fame  is  glory ;  translated  in  another 
way,  it  is  merely  notoriety.  It  is  a  thing 
which  exists,  of  course  ;  for  the  thoughts  of 
[So] 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

other  people  about  us  are  just  as  actual  as  our 
thoughts  about  ourselves,  or  as  the  character 
and  conduct  with  which  those  thoughts  are 
concerned.  But  the  three  things  do  not 
always  correspond. 

You  remember  what  Dr.  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes  says,  in  The  Autocrat  of  the  Break- 
fast-Table, about  the  three  Johns  :  — 

*'  i.  The  real  John ;  know  only  to  his  Maker. 

2.  John's  ideal  John  ;    never   the  real  one,  and  often 

very  unlike  him. 

3.  Thomas's  ideal  John  ;  never  the  real  John,  nor  John's 

John,  but  often  very  unlike  either." 

Now,  the  particular  object  of  the  life  that 
makes  fame  its  goal  is  this  last  John.  Its 
success  consists  in  the  report  of  other  people's 
thoughts  and  remarks  about  us.  Bare,  naked 
fame,  however  great  it  may  be,  can  never 
bring  us  anything  more  than  an  instantaneous 
photograph  of  the  way  we  look  to  other  men. 

JT  O        JT  v 

Consider  what  it  is  worth.  It  may  be 
good  or  bad,  flattering  or  painfully  truthful. 
People  are  celebrated  sometimes  for  their 
vices,  sometimes  for  their  follies.  Anything 
out  of  the  ordinary  line  will  attract  notice. 
Notoriety  may  be  purchased  by  a  colossal 
extravagance  or  a  monumental  absurdity.  A 
person  has  been  made  notorious  simply  by 
showing  himself  "more  kinds  of  a  fool" 
than  anyone  else  in  the  community. 

Many    men    would    be    famous    for    their 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

vanity  alone,  if  it  were  not  so  common  that 
it  no  longer  serves  as  a  mark  of  distinction. 
We  often  fancy  that  we  are  occupying  a  large 
place  in  the  attention  of  the  world,  when 
really  we  do  not  even  fill  a  pin-hole. 

To  he  governed  in  our  course  of  life  by  a 
timorous  consideration  of  what  the  world  will 
think  of  us,  is  to  be  even  lighter  and  more 
fickle  than  a  weathercock.  It  is  to  be  blown 
about  by  winds  so  small  and  slight  that  they 
could  not  even  lift  a  straw  outside  of  our 
own  versatile  imagination.  For  what  is  "  the 
world,"  for  whose  admiration,  or  envy,  or 
mere  notice,  we  are  willing  to  give  so  much? 
*'  Mount  up,"  says  a  wise  man,  "  in  a  mono- 
mania of  vanity,  the  number  of  those  who 
bestow  some  passing  thought  upon  you,  as 
high  as  you  dare  ;  and  what  is  this  '  world ' 
but  a  very  few  miserable  items  of  human 
existence,  which,  when  they  disappear,  none 
will  miss,  any  more  than  they  will  miss 
thyself?" 

There  is  one  point  in  which  fame  differs 
very  essentially  from  wealth  and  pleasure. 
If  it  comes  to  us  without  being  well-earned  it 
cannot  possibly  be  enjoyed.  A  pleasure  may 
arrive  by  chance,  and  still  it  will  be  pleasant. 
A  sum  of  money  may  be  won  by  a  gambler, 
and  still  it  is  real  money  ;  he  can  spend  it  as 
he  pleases.  But  fame  without  a  correspond- 
ing merit  is  simply  an  unmitigated  burden. 

[32] 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

I  cannot  imagine  a  more  miserable  position 
than  that  of  the  poor  scribbler  who  allowed 
his  acquaintances  to  congratulate  him  as  the 
writer  of  George  Eliot's  early  stories.  To 
have  the  name  of  great  wisdom,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  be  a  very  foolish  person,  is  to 
walk  through  the  world  in  a  suit  of  armor 
so  much  too  big  and  too  heavy  for  you  that 
it  makes  every  step  a  painful  eflbrt.  To 
have  a  fine  reputation  and  a  mean  character 
is  to  live  a  lie  and  die  a  sham.  And  this  is 
the  danger  to  which  every  one  who  seeks 
directly  and  primarily  for  fame  is  exposed. 

One  thing  is  certain  in  regard  to  fame  :  for 
most  of  us  it  will  be  very  brief  in  itself, 
for  all  of  us  it  will  be  transient  in  our  enjoy- 
ment of  it. 

When  death  has  dropped  the  curtain  we 
shall  hear  no  more  applause.  And  though 
we  fondly  dream  that  it  will  continue  after 
we  have  left  the  stage,  we  do  not  realize  how 
quickly  it  will  die  away  in  silence,  while  the 
audience  turns  to  look  at  the  new  actor  and 
the  next  scene.  Our  position  in  society  will 
be  filled  as  soon  as  it  is  vacated,  and  our  name 
remembered  only  for  a  moment,  —  except, 
please  God,  by  a  few  who  have  learned  to 
love  us,  not  because  of  fame,  but  because  we 
have  helped  them  and  done  them  some  good. 

This  thought  brings  us,  you  see,  within 
clear  sight  of  the  fourth  practical  aim  in  life, 
[33] 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

—  the  one  end  that  is  really  worth  working 
for, — usefulness.  To  desire  and  strive  to 
be  of  some  service  to  the  world,  to  aim  at 
doing  something  which  shall  really  increase 
the  happiness  and  welfare  and  virtue  of  man- 
kind, —  this  is  a  choice  which  is  possible  for 
all  of  us  ;  and  surely  it  is  a  good  haven  to 
sail  for. 

The  more  we  think  of  it,  the  more  attract- 
ive and  desirable  it  becomes.  To  do  some 
work  that  is  needed,  and  to  do  it  thoroughly 
well ;  to  make  our  toil  count  for  something 
in  adding  to  the  sum  total  of  what  is  actually 
profitable  for  humanity  ;  to  make  two  blades 
of  grass  grow  where  one  grew  before,  or, 
better  still,  to  make  one  wholesome  idea  take 
root  in  a  mind  that  was  bare  and  fallow  ;  to 
make  our  example  count  for  something  on 
the  side  of  honesty,  and  cheerfulness,  and 
courage,  and  good  faith,  and  love, — this  is 
an  aim  for  life  which  is  very  wide,  as  wide 
as  the  world,  and  yet  very  definite,  as  clear  as 
light.  It  is  not  in  the  least  vague.  It  is 
only  free  ;  it  has  the  power  to  embody  itself 
in  a  thousand  forms  without  changing  its 
character.  Those  who  seek  it  know  what 
it  means,  however  it  may  be  expressed.  It 
is  real  and  genuine  and  satisfying.  There  is 
nothing  beyond  it,  because  there  can  be  no 
higher  practical  result  of  efforts.  It  is  the 
translation,  through  many  languages,  of  the 
[34] 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

true,  divine  purpose  of  all  the  work  and  labor 
that  is  done  beneath  the  sun,  into  one  final, 
universal  word.  It  is  the  active  conscious- 
ness of  personal  harmony  with  the  will  of 
God  who  worketh  hitherto. 

To  have  this  for  the  chief  aim  in  life  en- 
nobles and  dignifies  all  that  it  touches.  Wealth 
that  comes  as  the  reward  of  usefulness  can 
be  accepted  with  honor  ;  and,  consecrated  to 
further  usefulness,  it  becomes  royal.  Fame 
that  comes  from  noble  service,  the  gratitude 
of  men,  be  they  few  or  many,  to  one  who  has 
done  them  good,  is  true  glory  ;  and  the  in- 
fluence that  it  brings  is  as  near  to  godlike 
power  as  anything  that  man  can  attain.  But 
whether  these  temporal  rewards  are  bestowed 
upon  us  or  not,  the  real  desire  of  the  soul  is 
satisfied  just  in  being  useful.  The  pleasantest 
word  that  a  man  can  hear  at  the  close  of  the 
day,  whispered  in  secret  to  his  soul,  is  "  Well 
done,  good  and  faithful  servant !  " 

Christ  tells  us  this:  "He  that  loseth  his 
life  shall  find  it."  '*  Whosoever  will  be  great 
among  you,  let  him  be  your  minister ;  and 
whosoever  will  be  chief  among  you,  let  him 
be  your  servant." 

Life  is  divine  when  duty  is  a  joy. 

Do  we  accept  these  sailing  orders  ?  Is  it 
really  the  desired  haven  of  all  our  activity 
to  do  some  good  in  the  world ;  to  carry  our 

[35] 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

share  of  the  great  world's  burden  which  must 
be  borne,  to  bring  our  lading  of  treasure,  be 
it  small  or  great,  safely  into  the  port  of  use- 
fulness ?  I  wonder  how  many  of  us  have 
faced  the  question  and  settled  it.  It  goes 
very  deep. 

IV.     THE    HAVEN    OF    CHARACTER 

But  deeper  still  the  question  goes  when 
we  look  at  it  in  another  light.  Our  life  is 
made  up,  not  of  actions  alone,  but  of  thoughts 
and  feelings  and  habitual  affections.  These 
taken  all  together  constitute  what  we  call  our 
present  character.  In  their  tendencies  and 
impulses  and  dominant  desires  they  consti- 
tute our  future  character,  towards  which  we 
are  moving  as  a  ship  to  her  haven. 

What  is  it,  then,  for  you  and  me,  this 
intimate  ideal,  this  distant  self,  this  hidden 
form  of  personality  which  is  our  goal  P 

I  am  sure  that  we  do  not  often  enough  put 
the  problem  clearly  before  us  in  this  shape. 
We  all  dream  of  the  future,  especially  when 
we  are  young. 

"  A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts." 

But  our  dreams  are  too  much  like  the  modern 
stage,  full  of  elaborate  scenery  and  machinery, 
crowded  with  startling  effects  and  brilliant 
costumes  and  magical  transformations,  but 
strangely  vacant  of  all  real  character. 
[36] 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

The  stuff  of  which  our  day-dreams  are 
made  is  for  the  most  part  of  very  cheap  ma- 
terial. We  seldom  weave  into  them  the 
threads  of  our  inmost  spiritual  life.  We 
build  castles  in  Spain,  and  forecast  adventures 
in  Bohemia.  But  the  castle  is  without  a  real 
master.  The  hero  of  the  adventure  is  vague 
and  misty  We  do  not  clearly  recognize  his 
face,  or  kno%v  Avhat  is  in  his  heart. 

We  picture  ourselves  as  living  here  or 
there  ;  we  imagine  ourselves  as  members  of  a 
certain  circle  of  society,  taking  our  places 
among  the  rich,  the  powerful,  the  "smart 
set."  We  fancy  ourselves  going  through  the 
various  experiences  of  life,  a  fortunate  mar- 
riage, a  successful  business  career,  a  literary 
triumph,  a  political  victory.  Or  perhaps,  if 
our  imagination  is  of  a  more  sombre  type, 
we  foreshadow  ourselves  in  circumstances  of 
defeat  and  disappointment  and  adversity.  But 
in  all  these  reveries  we  do  not  really  think 
deeply  of  our  Selves.  We  do  not  stay  to  ask 
what  manner  of  men  and  women  we  shall  be, 
when  we  are  living  here  or  there,  or  doing 
thus  or  so. 

Yet  it  is  an  important  question.  Very 
much  more  important,  in  fact,  than  the  thou- 
sand and  one  trifling  interrogatories  about  the 
future  with  which  we  amuse  our  idle  hours. 

And  the  strange  thing  is,  that,  though  our 
ideal  of  future  character  is  so  often  hidden 
[37] 


SHIPS  AND  HAVENS 

from  us,  overlooked,  forgotten,  it  is  always 
there,  and  always  potently,  though  uncon- 
sciously, shaping  our  course  in  life.  "Every 
one,"  says  Cervantes,  "  is  the  son  of  his  own 
works."  But  his  works  do  not  come  out  of 
the  air,  by  chance.  They  are  wrought  out 
in  a  secret,  instinctive  harmony  with  a  con- 
ception of  character  which  we  inwardly  ac- 
knowledge as  possible  and  likely  for  us. 

When  we  choose  between  two  lines  of  con- 
duct, between  a  mean  action  and  a  noble  one, 
we  choose  also  between  two  persons,  both 
bearing  our  name,  the  one  representing  what 
is  best  in  us,  the  other  embodying  what  is 
worst.  When  we  vacillate  and  alternate  be- 
tween them,  we  veer,  as  the  man  in  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson's  story  veered,  between  Dr. 
Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde. 

We  say  that  we  **  make  up  our  minds,"  to 
do  a  certain  thing  or  not  to  do  it,  to  resist 
a  certain  temptation  or  to  yield  to  it.  It  is 
true.  We  * '  make  up  our  minds  "  in  a  deeper 
sense  than  we  remember.  In  every  case  the 
ultimate  decision  is  between  two  future  selves, 
one  with  whom  the  virtue  is  harmonious, 
another  with  whom  the  vice  is  consistent. 
To  one  of  these  two  figures,  dimly  concealed 
behind  the  action,  we  move  forward.  What 
we  forget  is,  that,  when  the  forward  step  is 
taken,  the  shadow  will  be  myself.  Character 
is  eternal  destiny. 

[38] 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

There  is  a  profound  remark  in  George  Eliot's 
Middlemarch  which  throws  light  far  down  into 
the  abyss  of  many  a  lost  life.  "  We  are  on  a 
perilous  margin  when  we  begin  to  look  pas- 
sively at  our  future  selves,  and  see  our  own 
figures  led  with  dull  consent  into  insipid  mis- 
doing and  shabby  achievement."  But  there 
is  a  brighter  side  to  this  same  truth  of  life- 
philosophy.  We  are  on  a  path  which  leads 
upward,  by  sure  and  steady  steps,  when  we 
begin  to  look  at  our  future  selves  with  eyes  of 
noble  hope  and  clear  purpose,  and  see  our 
figures  climbing,  with  patient,  dauntless  effort, 
towards  the  heights  of  true  manhood  and 
womanhood.  Visions  like  these  are  Joseph's 
dreams.  They  are  stars  for  guidance.  They 
are  sheaves  of  promise.  The  very  memory 
of  them,  if  we  cherish  it,  is  a  power  of  pure 
restraint  and  generous  inspiration. 

O  for  a  new  generation  of  day-dreamers, 
young  men  and  maidens  who  shall  behold 
visions,  idealists  who  shall  see  themselves  as 
the  heroes  of  coming  conflicts,  the  heroines 
of  yet  unwritten  epics  of  triumphant  com- 
passion and  stainless  love.  From  their  hearts 
shall  spring  the  renaissance  of  faith  and  hope. 
The  ancient  charm  of  true  romance  shall 
flow  forth  again  to  glorify  the  world  in  the 
brightness  of  their  ardent  eyes,  - 

"The  light  that  never  was  on  land  or  sea, 
The  consecration  and  the  poet's  dream,'* 
[30] 


SHIPS  AND  HAVENS 

As  they  go  out  from  the  fair  gardens  of  a 
visionary  youth  into  the  wide,  confused,  tur- 
bulent field  of  life,  they  will  bring  with  them 
the  marching  music  of  a  high  resolve .  They 
will  strive  to  fulfil  the  fine  prophecy  of  their 
own  best  desires.  They  will  not  ask  whether 
life  is  worth  living,  —  they  will  make  it  so. 
They  will  transform  the  sordid  * '  struggle  for 
existence"  into  a  glorious  effort  to  become 
that  which  they  have  admired  and  loved. 

But  such  a  new  generation  is  possible  only 
through  the  regenerating  power  of  the  truth 
that  * '  a  man's  life  consisteth  not  in  the 
abundance  of  the  things  that  he  possesseth." 
We  must  learn  to  recognize  the  real  realities, 
and  to  hold  them  far  above  the  perishing 
trappings  of  existence  which  men  call  real. 

The  glory  of  our  life  below 

Comes  not  from  what  we  do  or  what  we  know, 

But  dwells  forever-more  in  what  we  are. 

"  He  only  is  advancing  in  life,"  says  John 
Ruskin,  "  whose  heart  is  getting  softer,  whose 
blood  warmer,  whose  brain  quicker,  whose 
spirit  is  entering  into  Living  peace.  And  the 
men  who  have  this  life  in  them  are  the  true 
lords  or  kings  of  the  earth  —  they,  and  they 
only." 

Now  I  think  you  can  see  what  is  meant 
by  this  question  of  the  desired  haven  in  char- 
acter. What  manner  of  men  and  women  do 
we  truly  hope  and  wish  to  become  ? 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

The  number  of  ideals  seems  infinite.  But, 
after  all,  there  are  only  two  great  types. 
St.  Paul  calls  them  "  the  carnal,"  and  "  the 
spiritual ;  "  and  I  knoAv  of  no  better  names. 

The  carnal  type  of  character,  weak  or 
strong,  clever  or  stupid,  is  always  self-ruled, 
governed  by  its  own  appetites  and  passions, 
seeking  its  own  ends,  and,  even  when  con- 
formed to  some  outward  law  or  code  of 
honor,  obedient  only  because  it  finds  its  own 
advantage  or  comfort  therein.  There  is  many 
a  man  who  stands  upright  only  because  the 
pressure  of  the  crowd  makes  it  inconvenient 
for  him  to  stoop.  "The  churl  in  spirit" 
may  speak  fair  words  because  of  those  who 
hear  ;  but  in  his  heart  he  says  the  thing  that 
pleases  him,  which  is  vile. 

The  spiritual  type  of  character  is  divinely 
ruled,  submissive  to  a  higher  law,  doing 
another  will  than  its  own,  seeking  the  ends 
of  virtue  and  holiness  and  unselfish  love.  It 
may  have  many  inward  struggles,  many  de- 
feats, many  bitter  renunciations  and  regrets. 
It  may  appear  far  less  peaceful,  orderly,  self- 
satisfied,  than  some  of  those  who  are  secretly 
following  the  other  ideal.  Many  a  saint  in 
the  making  seems  to  be  marred  by  faults  and 
conflicts  from  which  the  smug,  careful,  reput- 
able sensualist  is  exempt.  The  difference 
between  the  two  is  not  one  of  position.  It 
is  one  of  direction.  The  one,  however  high 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

he  stands,  is  moving  down.     The  other,  how- 
ever low  he  starts,  is  moving  up. 

We  all  know  who  it  is  that  stands  at  the 
very  summit  of  the  spiritual  pathway, — Jesus 
Christ,  the  Son  of  God,  who  became  a  perfect 
man,  leaving  us  an  example  that  we  should 
follow  in  his  steps.  We  know,  too,  the  steps 
in  which  he  trod, — obedience,  devotion, 
purity,  truthfulness,  kindness,  resistance  of 
temptation,  self-sacrifice.  And  we  know  the 
result  of  following  him,  until  we  come,  in 
the  unity  of  the  faith  and  of  the  knoAvledge  of 
the  Son  of  God,  unto  a  perfect  manhood, 
unto  the  measure  of  the  stature  of  the  fulness 
of  Christ. 

Which  type  of  character  do  we  honestly 
desire  and  expect  to  reach  ?  Let  us  not 
indulge  in  any  delusions  about  it.  Just  as 
surely  as  our  faces  are  hardening  into  a 
certain  expression,  ugly  or  pleasant,  and  our 
bodies  are  moving  towards  a  certain  condition 
of  health,  sound  or  diseased,  so  surely  are 
our  souls  moving  towards  a  certain  type  of 
character.  Along  which  line  are  we  looking 
and  steering  ?  Along  the  line  that  leads  to  an 
older,  grayer,  stilfer  likeness  of  our  present 
selves,  with  all  our  selfishness  and  pride  and 
impurity  and  inconsistency  and  discontent 
confirmed  and  hardened?  Or  the  line  that 
ends  in  likeness  to  Christ  I 

Surely  we  are  voyaging  blindly  unless  we 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

know  what  haven  of  character  our  souls  are 
seeking.  Surely  we  are  making  a  mad  and 
base  and  fatal  choice,  unless  we  direct  our 
course  to  the  highest  and  the  noblest  goal. 
To  knoAV  Christ  is  life  eternal.  To  become 
like  Christ  is  success  everlasting. 

V.     THE  LAST  PORT 

There  is  still  one  more  way  of  putting  this 
question  about  our  desired  haven, — a  way 
perhaps  more  common  than  the  others,  and 
therefore  probably  more  natural,  though  I 
cannot  believe  that  it  is  more  important.  It 
is,  in  fact,  simply  a  carrying  on  of  the  first 
two  questions  beyond  the  horizon  of  mortal 
sight,  a  prolongation  of  the  voyage  of  life 
upon  the  ocean  of  eternity. 

Almost  all  of  us  have  an  expectation,  how- 
ever dim  and  misty,  of  an  existence  of  some 
kind  after  we  have  crossed  the  bar  of  death. 
Even  those  who  do  not  believe  that  this  exist- 
ence will  be  conscious,  those  who  suppose 
that  death  ends  all,  so  far  as  our  thought  and 
feeling  are  concerned,  and  that  the  soul  goes 
out  when  the  heart  stops,  —  even  the  doubters 
of  immortality  foresee  a  certain  kind  of  a  haven 
for  their  lives  in  the  deep,  dreamless,  endless 
sleep  of  oblivion.  There  is  no  one  now 
living  who  does  not  owe  a  clear  and  definite 
answer  to  the  question  :  '  *  Where  do  you  wish 
and  expect  to  go  when  you  die  ?  ' ' 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

Now,  I  am  quite  sure  that  we  have  no 
right  to  try  to  separate  this  question  of  our 
haven  after  death  from  the  questions  in  regard 
to  our  present  aspirations  and  efforts  in  con- 
duct and  character.  For  every  one  who 
considers  it  soberly  must  see  that  our  future 
destiny  cannot  possibly  be  anything  else  than 
the  reward  and  consequence  of  our  present  life. 
Whether  it  be  a  state  of  spiritual  blessedness, 
or  an  experience  of  spiritual  woe,  or  simply 
a  blank  extinction,  it  will  come  as  the  result 
of  the  deeds  done  in  the  body.  It  will  be  the 
fitting  and  inevitable  arrival  at  a  goal  towards 
which  we  have  been  moving  in  all  our  actions, 
and  for  which  we  have  been  preparing  our- 
selves by  all  the  secret  affections  and  hopes 
and  beliefs  which  we  are  daily  working  into 
our  characters. 

But  there  is  a  reason,  after  all,  and  a  very 
profound  reason,  why  we  should  sometimes 
put  this  question  of  our  desired  haven  after 
death  in  a  distinct  form,  and  why  we  should 
try  to  give  a  true  and  honest  answer  to  it, 
with  an  outlook  that  goes  beyond  the  grave. 

It  is  because  the  answer  will  certainly  deter- 
mine our  conduct  now,  and  there  is  every 
reason  to  believe  that  it  will  affect  the  result 
hereafter. 

Men  say  that  the  future  life  is  only  a  pos- 
sibility, or  at  best  a  probability,  and  that  it 
is  foolish  to  waste  our  present  existence  in 
[44] 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

the  consideration  of  problems  to  which  the 
only  answer  must  be  a  "perhaps,"  or  "  I 
hope  so , "  or  "  I  believe  so . ' '  But  is  it  not  one 
of  the  very  conditions  of  our  advance,  even 
in  this  world,  that  we  should  be  forever  going 
forward  along  lines  which  lie  altogether  in  the 
region  of  the  probable,  and  for  which  we 
have  no  better  security  than  our  own  expec- 
tation and  wish  that  they  shall  lead  us  to  the 
truth,  anticipated,  but  as  yet  unproved  and 
really  unknown  ? 

"  So  far  as  man  stands  for  anything," 
writes  Professor  William  James,  the  psy- 
chologist, in  his  latest  book,  The  Will  to 
Believe,  ' '  and  is  productive  or  originative 
at  all,  his  entire  vital  function  may  be  said 
to  have  to  deal  with  maybes.  Not  a  victory  is 
gained,  not  a  deed  of  faithfulness  or  courage 
is  done,  except  upon  a  maybe  ;  not  a  service, 
not  a  sally  of  generosity,  not  a  scientific  ex- 
ploration or  experiment  or  text-book,  that 
may  not  be  a  mistake.  It  is  only  by  risking 
our  persons  from  one  hour  to  another  that 
we  live  at  all.  And  often  enough  our  faith 
beforehand  in  an  uncertified  result  is  the  only 
thing  that  makes  the  result  come  true." 

Surely  this  is  certain  enough  in  regard  to 
the  difference  between  this  present  life  as  a 
dull  and  dismal  struggle  for  the  meat  and 
drink  that  are  necessary  for  an  animal  exist- 
ence, and  as  a  noble  and  beautiful  conflict 
[45] 


SHIPS   AM)   HAVENS 

for  moral  and  spiritual  ends.  It  is  t/ic  faitfi 
that  makes  the  result  come  true.  As  a  man 
thinketh  in  his  heart,  so  is  he,  and  HO  is  his 
world.  For  those  whose  thoughts  are  earthly 
and  sensual,  this  is  a  beast's  world.  I  <>r 
those  whose  thoughts  are  high  and  nohle  and 
heroic,  it  is  a  hero's  world.  The  strength  of 
wishes  transforms  the  \ery  stuff  of  our  exist- 
ence, and  moulds  it  to  the  form  of  our  heart's 
inmost  desire  and  hope. 

Why  should  it  not  be  true  in  the  world  to 
come?  Why  should  not  the  eternal  result, 
as  well  as  the  present  course,  of  our  voyaging 
depend  upon  our  own  choice  of  a  haven 
beyond  the  grave?  Christ  says  that  it  d< 
"  Seek  ye  first  the  kingdom  of  God."  tl  Lay 
not  up  for  yourselves  treasures  upon  earth, 
but  lay  up  for  yourselves  treasures  in  heaven." 

If  the  immortal  life  is  a  reality,  is  it  not 
reasonable  to  think  that  the  first  condition  of 
our  attaining  it  is  that  we  should  per-M.n.-dly 
wish  for  it,  and  strive  to  enter  into  it?  And 
must  not  our  neglect  or  refusal  to  do  this  h»- 
the  one  thing  that  will  inevitably  shut  us  out 
from  it,  and  make  our  eternity  an  outer 
darkness  P 

Mark  you,  I  do  not  say  that  it  is  reasonable 
to  suppose  that  we  must  be  absolutely  certain 
of  the  reality  of  heaven  in  order  to  an 
thither.  We  may  liave  many  doubts  and 
misgivings.  But  deep  down  it  our  hearts 
[»] 


SHIPS   AND  HAVENS 

there  must  be  the  wish  to  prove  the  truth 
of  this  great  hope  of  au  endless  life  with  God, 
and  the  definite  resolve  to  make  this  happy 
haven  the  end  of  all  our  voyaging. 

This  is  what  the  apostle  means  by  "  the 
power  of  an  endless  life."  The  passion  of 
immortality  is  the  thing  that  immortalizes  our 
being.  To  be  in  love  with  heaven  is  the 
surest  way  to  be  fitted  for  it.  Desire  is  the 
magnetic  force  of  character.  Character  is 
the  compass  of  life.  "He  that  hath  this 
hope  in  him  purifieth  himself." 

Let  me,  then,  put  this  question  to  you  very 
simply  and  earnestly  and  personally. 

What  is  your  desired  haven  beyond  the 
grave?  It  is  for  yon  to  choose.  There  are 
no  secret  books  of  fate  in  which  your  course 
is  traced,  and  your  destiny  irrevocably  ap- 
pointed. There  is  only  the  Lamb's  book 
of  life,  in  which  new  names  are  being  written 
every  day,  as  new  hearts  turn  from  darkness 
to  Light,  and  from  the  kingdom  of  Satan  to 
the  kingdom  of  God.  No  ship  that  sails 
the  sea  is  as  free  to  make  for  her  port  as  you 
are  to  seek  the  haven  that  your  inmost  soul 
desires.  And  if  your  choice  is  right,  and  if 
your  desire  is  real,  so  that  you  will  steer  and 
strive  with  God's  help  to  reach  the  goal,  you 
shafl  never  be  wrecked  or  lost. 

For  of  every  soul  that  seeks  to  arrive  at 
usefulness,  which  is  the  service  of  Christ,  and 


SHIPS   AND   HAVENS 

at  holiness,  which  is  the  likeness  of  Christ, 
and  at  heaven,  which  is  the  eternal  presence 
of  Christ,  it  is  written  :  — 

So  he  bringeth  them  anto  their  desired  haven. 

Like  unto  ships  far  off  at  sea, 

Outward  or  homeward  bound,  are  we. 

Before,  behind,  and  all  around, 

Floats  and  swings  the  horizon's  bound, 

Seems  at  its  distant  rim  to  rise 

And  climb  the  crystal  wall  of  the  skies, 

And  then  again  to  turn  and  sink 

As  if  we  could  slide  from  its  outer  brink. 

Ah !   it  is  not  the  sea, 

It  is  not  the  sea  that  sinks  and  shelves, 

But  ourselves 

That  rock  and  rise 

With  endless  and  uneasy  motion, 

Now  touching  the  very  skies, 

Now  sinking  into  the  depths  of  ocean. 

Ah  I  if  our  souls  but  poise  and  swing 

Like  the  compass  in  its  brazen  ring, 

Ever  level  and  ever  true 

To  the  toil  and  the  task  we  have  to  do, 

We  shall  sail  securely,  and  safely  reach 

The  Fortunate  Isles,  on  whose  shining  beach 

The  sights  we  see,  and  the  sounds  we  hear, 

Will  be  those  of  joy  and  not  of  fear. 

LONGFELLOW. 


[48] 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  lost  DATE  stamped  below. 


DEC  1  6  1970 
DEC  3 


AUG10'83      I 

AUG9    1983REC'D 

MAR22'84     » 

MAR121984REC'D 

APR  15*91 

NOV  1  7  1991  REG'B 


)Om-6,'67(H2523s8)2373 


PS3117.S5  1897 


3  2106  00208  2987 


